Terrible Things
by Hummelicious Definition
Summary: June twenty-second was that trigger. Fic based off the song Terrible Things by Mayday Parade


**Disclaimer:** I'm not affiliated to Fox Entertainment, Glee, Ryan Murphy, or Maday Parade. I'd be swimming in cash if I did.

**Author's Note: **This was pulled off a Tumblr that I used to use for uploading stories that I never really used. Also, this oneshot is inspired by the song _Terrible Things _by Mayday Parade.

Adults rarely look upon seven year olds to have the answers to life. They rarely look to seven year olds to have any answers at all. At only the beginning stages of their lives, they're expected to live life with a fervor that dies out when the shroud of innocence is torn from one's eyes; all it takes is that one trigger.

June twenty-second was that trigger.

A bright-eyed, cherub-faced brunette toddled down the walk way towards the door, opening it and expecting the familiar silhouette that smelled of cookies and a light flowery perfume to be waiting with arms wide open. This thought, however, was proven quite wrong, as the small boy bounded into an empty home, devoid of any movement besides the old grandfather clock that sat in the living room.

"Mommy?" The adolescent voice called out, taking several cursory steps inside. "Mommy, where are—?" His question was answered by the crumpled figure of his father sitting beside his mother on the couch, the two pulling away from an embrace as their child entered the room.

"Mommy!" The boy exclaimed, his cerulean eyes immediately brightening up at the familiar faces. "I'm back from school and I—!"Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. His father hadn't even looked up from his hands, which were folded quietly in front of him somberly. And his mother.

His mother.

She was so pale, but a frail smile still tugged at her berry-stained lips.

"Kurt," she whispered, her voice shaky as she held out her arms. "K-Kurt, welcome home. Give Mommy a hug." He was only seven years old. He didn't understand what was going on, he just knew that his mother wanted a hug. Being the loving and innocent son that he was, Kurt ran into his mother's arms for what would be one of the last times she would have the strength to sit up right. He hugged her tightly, the warm smile on his face unwitting to the tears forming in his mother's eyes as she held her only son for what would be one of the last times she would see him without tears streaming down his face. Kurt's mother motioned for Burt to join, and the three of them sat there in each other's arms for what would be one of the last times they would be together as a family.

"Mommy?" Kurt said, looking up at the woman he so admired. "I love you." Turning the other way, he smiled at his father as well, his eyes full of the naïve thoughts that come with childhood. "I love you too, Daddy." The two parents looked at their son—their selfless, kindhearted son who had never done anything to deserve the news he was about to get—and squeezed each other's hands that had been intertwined since before Kurt had gotten home.

"Kurt," his mother said, willing her voice to remain steady, but failing terribly as the tremors and cracks were evident in her voice. "Kurt, Mommy's…"

"Mommy's sick."

* * *

><p>A dry-eyed Kurt held tightly onto his father's hand as the cherry wood coffin descended six feet under. It was the first and only time the rail boy had seen his strong father cry, unable to control the onslaught of emotions that crashed onto him like a tidal wave. His petite hand found his way onto his father's back, rubbing it in a soothing manner as his other hand stayed clutched in his father's.<p>

He was seven years old, and he was comforting the strongest man he'd ever known.

"Dad, could you tell me how you met Mom?"

It was a simple enough request, but the now twelve year old boy was met with a quizzical stare as he stood in the doorway of the garage. Burt, who had been working on the car—something about the antifreeze not dispensing properly—looked up.

"What do you mean?" He asked, wiping his hands off with the blue grease-stained rag that had been hanging from the pocket of his jeans.

Kurt's eyes fell to the ground, a look of shame overcoming his face. "I…" He started, unsure of whether to continue for fear of judgment. "I had a dream about her… But I don't remember her."

Burt continued to give his son a confused look. "Kurt, you're not making any sense," he said, leaning against the beat-up Ford.

"It's just…" The brunette started, but he shook his head. "Forget I said anything, Dad. Sorry I bothered you." He waved his hand dismissively and turned around to make his way back into the house, but a strong hand came down on his shoulder. Kurt looked up, only to see his father's humble features contorted into a look that was part confusion, part determination.

"… I met your mom when I was about your age," he said, a bittersweet smile coming to his face with the rush of nostalgia. Burt sat himself down on the steps leading into the garage and hoisted Kurt onto his lap. "She was always such a pretty girl—the prettiest in my book," Burt added, never looking at Kurt, but looking intently at some speck in the ground that seemed to have all his memories. "But she never looked twice at me, mostly because I was so shy." A small laugh escaped his father's lips, but there was an edge to the sound. "Then finally, one day I manned up and I asked her to the movies. She turned me down." Both father and son laughed quietly at this one. "But we did become friends. And it was after I had _really _gotten to know her that I realized that I liked her for so many more reasons than just because she was pretty. Her heart was what made her beautiful to me." Burt now looked at his son and into the blue eyes Kurt had inherited from his mother. "But why ask now? What happened in your dream?"

It was now Kurt's turn to stare at the ground, avoiding his father's glance. His mouth would open, as if to start words, and then close again, unsure of what exactly to say. Seconds stretched into minutes before Kurt finally made any noise.

"She was so pale."

Realization clicked in Burt's eyes as he held his son close, an action that felt alien to him. Kurt kept going, however, his voice steady, but barely audible.

"She was sitting in the hospital bed and she could barely talk. Her heartbeat was slow and I was holding her hand to make sure she knew I was still here. She turned to me and I asked her what was going on. Mom just smiled at me, even though she was crying, and she said that… that…" It was at this point that Kurt's voice started to break.

"That you were the greatest thing to have happened to her," Burt finished, hugging his small son tighter. Kurt was shaking, but he never cried. Burt wasn't sure whether this was a good or bad thing, but still held his son close to him.

"But I don't remember her, Dad," came the countertenor's small voice. "I don't remember her face, her voice—anything. All I remember is that stupid hospital room and how pale she was. I—" Kurt couldn't continue. Burt, the ever-loving father, was at a loss at this point. Yes, he'd lost his wife, but Kurt had lost his _mother_. It was a different feeling, a different sense of loss that Burt would never be able to understand, as his mother had seen him and helped him grow up. Unable to find words to comfort his son, he settled for the truth.

"Now son," Burt started, still holding his son tight. "Sometimes… Sometimes life can do terrible things."

"But why?" It was a heavy question for such a small cluster of words. He

Burt didn't have all the answers; if he did, he would've answered his own existential questions that haunted his subconscious as he lied awake in bed at night, the other side unused for years now. He couldn't be looked upon to solve such complex riddles about why bad things happen to good people. All he could do was just shake his head after taking time to deliberate.

"I don't know, son. I just don't know."


End file.
